


Designs

by Saeva



Series: The Architecture Series [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Bruises, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Humiliation, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Ownership, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Relationship Negotiation, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sex Magic, Sexual Violence, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeva/pseuds/Saeva
Summary: Two weeks isn't a long time, in the grand scheme things, but it's long enough to adjust to a change of circumstance. Now married to Voldemort in a peace treaty that will protect his friends and help Muggleborns, Harry's adjusting. Hermione's doing some adjustment of her own and broaches a conversation with Voldemort for the first time. It doesn't go great for her.Oh, and then there's the sex. About half of this is sex.Coming in the next chapter: Neville!
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Architecture Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632745
Comments: 20
Kudos: 194





	Designs

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by [GryphonFeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryphonfeather).

"You're leaning over your food again," Marvolo says with a sigh. Harry straightens immediately, his back ramrod straight and his mouth, still half full of food, in a tight line. Hermione can see him working up to his anger, the flash of it in his eyes and the gritting of his teeth but not past his lips. Rarely does his anger make it past his lips here.

"I'm trying," he says instead. 

"Try harder. Hermione has managed to pick up the dining manners needed to behave in a society." 

Harry's mouth gets even tighter and he swallows properly. "Hermione," he says, "had parents to teach her." 

Marvolo's dark right eyebrow goes up. Not annoyance but condescension. She knows the feeling of it coming. He won't punish Harry but his words will be punishing enough. He smiles, a show of teeth more than amusement, and offers, easily, "Stop giving me excuses, pet. I managed to learn it by your age. It is not on me that you lack drive to better yourself, but you will do better." 

Harry flushes, then pales, his fingers trembling around his fork. He says nothing. He _does_ go back to eating, his spine pressing hard against the back of his chair as his eyes, glittering like shards of glass, focus on the Dark Lord.

Later -- after dinner and after after-dinner, that period of time each night that her best friend disappears only to show up an hour or two later, sated and sleepy or tense and unhappy or some other emotion born of Marvolo’s treatment of him -- she excuses herself from the library early. Harry frowns thoughtfully but says nothing, going back to his book on Runic Warding. 

(She’s not sure he’s realised yet that his understanding of Runes is as unusual as his instinctive grasp of flying. At this rate she thinks he’ll be ready for his OWL in it by Christmas.) 

The office that Marvolo spends most of his time in is part of the master suite so, after a bit of thought, he’d made a door facing into the hall for her a week ago. This is the first time she’s used it. 

He answers quickly, frowning. “Harry?” 

“He’s fine.” It’s reassuring he’s concerned, she tells herself. “You need to be less hard on him.” 

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow and he grabs her arm, pulling her into the office. 

She swallows, forcing herself to stay calm. He wouldn’t hurt her given the risk of it damaging his work with Harry, that much has been clear during this past two weeks. He doesn’t accept challenges to his authority as head of this household but he’s otherwise been unfailingly polite. She doesn’t know how he really feels about having her here and neither does Harry. 

“Harry takes everything you say very seriously, sir. You did manage to learn it but you were also in a House that, I think, would value that and you also weren’t being manipulated by the Headmaster to take on too much responsibility. Harry’s done his best.” 

It hurts but she’s certain she’s right. Taken in context of the Horcrux the Headmaster’s act --

The thought cuts off with an abrupt, violent splinter of a moment as magic seizes her by the neck and _holds her there_. Her heart pounds as she realises she’s in the same room as the Dark Lord and she can’t move. 

“Your Occlumency shields are coming along rather pathetically,” he says patiently, as if he’s commenting on a poor choice of robe colour. “Who else did he tell?” 

She swallows hard and presses at the spell, unable to breathe. It doesn’t help so she thinks it, as loudly and as clearly as she can, that she can’t breathe. A moment later her body jars with impact, a splash of pain, and she’s gasping for air, kneeling before the _Dark Lord_. For a long few breaths she whimpers, too afraid to make herself get up, some-Gryffindor-she-is (Harry would already be up, already recovering, and she shudders at the fear clawing at her belly). 

“No one,” Hermione says a minute later. “He told me. That’s it. Not Ron, not the Weasleys, not Sirius Black or Remus Lupin, only me.” 

“And what have you done to earn that distinction?” 

Her chest hurts but this time her lungs have little to do with it. “I’ve never betrayed him. Never doubted him. I… One time I listed to the Headmaster when I shouldn’t have but I was so scared you’d find Harry by tracking owl post after Dumbledore --” 

“Lied to you. Tracking owl post is no simple task, even if I did know where to be to interfere with the letter or had an agent with access to the owl. The same magic that makes it possible for owls to find people with only their names makes them almost impossible to track. For someone who prides herself so much on knowledge you flubbed this rather spectacularly in failing to pick up the appropriate book.” 

Shame, already hot and heady for her, curls around her chest to make a home there and she swallows heavily. “Yes, sir.” 

“And besides, Hedwig’s already a bonded familiar. She’d die before giving up her master.” Marvolo -- and he is Marvolo again -- sighs slightly. “Only you, then?” 

“Only me.” 

“You’ll take a vow, Hermione. I can’t have you telling anyone else, you understand.” His slender hand with its long fingers reaches down for her and she accepts the help up. 

Later, after she’s taken a vow so restrictive that she’s nauseous at the thought of it, he returns to the subject she came here for. She keeps her eyes on the ground but says, slowly, “He takes what you say personally. He’s already working on it during the day. He can’t work any faster while also working on the other things you’ve recommended.” 

His lips purse. “That I recommended?” 

“Runes, for one. Etiquette. He’s working through the first of three history books you mentioned you found foundational a few days ago. Silent casting. A Defence book you suggested last week. Anything you mentioned, really. You insist he eats and sleeps and spends time with you.” Her stomach twists at the last, all too aware that ‘spend time’ _means_ ‘fuck a boy far too young for me’. “He spends the rest of his time working.” 

She doesn’t understand why this, of all things, motivated Harry. She’s never seen Marvolo punish Harry or even scold him beyond an occasional cruel comment. It could be happening after dinner, of course, but in the two weeks she’s been here Harry more often than not comes back looking relaxed. Yet Harry works even harder than she’s ever asked for and he does it for the man in front of her.

Marvolo’s mouth twitches slightly but otherwise, beyond looking thoughtful, he doesn’t respond to her words. She shivers. She needs to get through to him. “Please, he’s really trying very hard. It would be nice if you acknowledged that. You do want him to stay motivated, yes?” 

She so wants Harry to keep his spirit up. This must work. 

“Yes, I do. I’ll be more aware of what he’s working on. Now, go.” The door opens with the flick of his hand and Hermione leaves, thinking about how Harry will be pleased. 

Only when she’s far enough from the office she’s fairly certain Marvolo won’t hear her does she think about what she now suspects: _why_ Marvolo wanted Harry under his control beyond the symbolism of it. The sex is a perk, not the purpose, she’s almost sure. But to now go and test it. 

Harry’s in the duelling room practicing his silent casting again. It isn’t perfect but he’s picked it up far, far faster than the books say one should. Apparently Marvolo decided the best way to teach Harry that was by giving him the memory of Marvolo learning it himself. 

She’s almost tempted to ask for that herself. She can’t even begin to silent cast yet and when Marvolo tried to explain it she didn’t see what he did. Harry’s a very image heavy person, unlike herself, and he’s picking up magic so much more quickly now that he has someone to explain how to weaponise that imagery. 

“Harry, there you are.” He turns, a bright smile on his face and his shirt unbuttoned slightly at the top. 

She flushes but not at the slight glimpse of pale skin damp with a bit of sweat in the warm room. No, he’s forgotten the bruises around his neck again, creeping along the base to wrap around his pulse points. The bruise is nearly healed now to her relief and she makes herself ignore it. 

“Yes?” 

“I want to try something. Erm. That is, I want you to throw as much magic as you can at the target over there. As much as you can, Harry. I’ll explain why afterward.” 

“... alright, then. A… I’ll do a Patronus Charm. That takes a lot, I reckon, and I’ll focus on making it as strong as I can, yeah?” 

She smiles encouragingly and nods, watching him turn towards the wall. Harry’s never felt another’s magical aura. She realised that this year when they were working on the defence club and Harry had no idea who to pair, or not to pair, with anyone else during practicals. 

As he turns, his magic building up around the charm and the words spilling past his lips, he confirms why. You only feel auras of people stronger than you -- a metaphysical difference according to some theorists and a defence mechanism according to others -- or around your own strength. The magic bursts into the room, the same way the magic of the vow had spread like an inky pool over her skin, and as Prongs comes into a blinding, solid existence he steals her breath away. 

She doesn’t breathe again until Prongs circles her twice and blinks away, leaving her chest heaving as the air returns. 

When she can breathe again, an explanation of Begonia Butcher’s Theory of Conversant Magics comes out slowly, full of tangents of her personal experience that Harry will believe. He mightn’t agree with a theory but he’d never call her a liar. Finally, she says, “I’ve felt Marvolo’s magic before and yours, Harry, it’s just as strong. Stronger, maybe, given that when your wands met you pushed his spell back to him.” 

Harry works at his lip, frowning, but eventually nods. “Alright, so I’m strong. Magically.” He starts to shrug but freezes up. “Oh, damn. That’s -- You think that’s why he wanted me here, married to him. I thought --” 

“You thought?” 

He looks away. “Rich men sometimes give their wives or mistresses things to do, you know? Mr. Number Seven gave his mistress a hobby business, yeah? Uncle Vernon would’ve done if Aunt Petunia cared to work at all. She was always allergic to work, though.” 

Her eyes narrow as she takes his hand, leading him to two comfortable chairs set in the sideline, out of the way of anyone duelling. This isn’t the first time in the last two weeks that he’s said something like that. “Harry, it sounds as if you have a very traditional sense of what a marriage is.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“Your aunt is a housewife, isn’t she? She’s not like my mum, who’s always been a dentist except when she needed to take maternity leave with me.” 

“Yeah, that’s right.” 

“And that was how it was for most of Privet Drive, as far as you knew?” 

“Mrs. Number Three worked,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “The other women always gossiped about that, natting on and on ‘bout how shameful it was or some bollocks.” 

Hermione purses her lips. Harry might say it’s bollocks but you do what you know, she knows that. Having seen her mother be just as successful as her father she knew she’d never settle for anything less. “Does Marvolo talk like that? I know he’s from a different time.” 

Harry frowns. “No. He says he wants to help me with a career, right? We talked about me maybe helping with the orphanage he’s going to set up, too.” 

“Orphanage?” 

His eyes slide away and he says, quite quietly, “Hermione, the babies and littles at Hogwarts right now have to go somewhere until they’re adopted.” 

Her stomach rolls but she swallows it down. “Oh, right. I --” Forgot. Somehow she let herself forget that each night she took dinner with a man who stole children away from their parents. He was so charming, so clever, so bloody patient, after all, and gentle with Harry most of the time besides. “He told me that he’s setting up a visit with my parents for tomorrow.” 

After she took the vow, of course. 

Harry smiles brightly. “I know. He said he’d do it this morning. He’s going to bring them here and then let you go home to, uh, pack anything to want to pack. I know you didn’t get a chance to grab much except what was already in your trunk and some clothes. 

“I asked if you could -- Dudley has all sorts of things from his childhood that Aunt Petunia kept. I reckoned that your mum probably did it too. He said yes and he doesn’t lie to me. It’d ‘ruin the trust I’m attempting to forge with you, pet’.” He rolls his eyes gently but she can see the relief in the lines of his face. “That’s good, right?” 

It’s _brilliant_. And she wonders what it cost him. “Harry, I really don’t wan --” 

“He said if I behaved for a week he’d do it, okay?” Harry’s mouth tightens and his shoulders follow. “I was going to behave either way, for my own sake. It didn’t cost anything I wasn’t already planning to do.” 

“I’m sorry. I upset --” She breathes out and hugs him. “I’m sorry, Harry. Thank you. Visiting with them and getting to pack more things means a lot to me.” 

“You’re welcome,” he says into her hair and she laughs a little. She’s getting better at pretending to be fine with this situation, she thinks. 

“So he talks of you having a career. In his… administration?” Is ‘administration’ the right word there, really? “Kingdom.” 

“If I want, like the orphanage. Or somewhere else if I want that. That’s why I thought it was to keep me busy. He doesn’t seem to care what I do.” 

Given how powerful Harry is she suspects Marvolo cares a lot about what Harry ends up choosing. “But he’s not expecting you to be a house-husband like your aunt. It was common in his day, in the Muggle world, for women not to work and I wondered that… but it sounds like you’re the one who’s thinking that way, not him.” 

_With a bright laugh Harry shakes his head, as if she was joking. As if his future didn’t_ matter _in any way. Then he seems to realise she’s serious and says, “Hermione, I haven’t got a future. I mean, I do. I’ll live, which is better than either of us thought I’d get by my last birthday. But my future is… Being his consort. And raising his children, I guess…”_

She reaffirms the promise she made to herself when she first heard that a two weeks ago. She _will_ make certain Harry has a true future, at least equivalent to her own. 

“If I’m really as powerful as you think I am -- powerful enough I’ve never felt another person’s aura, except maybe Marvolo’s -- then he’ll want me working for the betterment of magical kind. He wouldn’t want that to go to waste.” His eyes narrow and an odd smile flits over his face. “I suppose I’ll have to do something with that, then.” 

“Something?” 

He sighs. “Practice your occlumency, Hermione, and I’ll tell you. Right now Marvolo can read anything he likes off of you if you get his attention. He seems to passively pick things up too.” 

She sighs back. “I’d noticed that. I’ll practice. Do be careful though, won’t you?” 

“‘Course. Come on. That Patronus made me feel a bit peaky. Let’s see if we can’t get Dobby to make us hot chocolate. He likes doing little things like that for us.” 

“Yes, alright. That sounds good.” _At least he gets a wage._ “To the library.” 

Harry laughs, bright and happy. Being here almost seems good for him and she hates what that says about the house he grew up in. But she grins back and takes his hand, dragging him towards the little nook in the library that they can easily set up to take hot chocolate in. 

Tomorrow she gets to see her parents. That’s better than other Muggleborns have it. 

Bedtime comes the way it always does. One minute he’s with Hermione, reading or chatting or practicing spellwork, and the next Lissy stands there, waiting for a moment to politely break in with a ‘Master is saying it be time for bed now’. 

It galls him a little that his husband’s assigning him a fucking bedtime, especially since half the time, so far, he’d gone to bed alone. 

Tonight Marvolo waits for him in the bedroom, already stripped down to the long pants favoured in the magical world and nothing else. Harry likes the strength in Marvolo’s body, the rippling definition of his chest and arms that are muscular without being bulky, and he allows his eyes to linger on the area for a long moment. 

“You want to bed me again, then? I’m still a bit sore from an hour ago.” That isn’t a complaint, really, and he half hopes that Marvolo won’t heal him before fucking him again. His robe comes off easily and he quickly tugs his tunic off. 

“Come here, pet.” 

“Mmm.” Harry eases closer, smiling brightly while keeping his thoughts small. 

Hermione’s mind is still too open to learn that Harry’s new great ambition in life is to be a house-husband. After all, Marvolo wants him to be anything but and he’d hate to make this too easy on the man. 

The hand lashing out to grab his throat surprises him, the one on his arm turning to push him down on the bed less so. He relaxes into it. The bruises are almost healed, after all. “You could have told me you wanted to freshen up the bruises. You didn’t have to grab me.” 

Marvolo straddles Harry’s hips, pressing down enough to cut off air before his expression alters, shifting from interested to annoyed. “Pet, we apparently must have a conversation about what is and isn’t necessary to share because you’ve kept quite a significant piece of information from me.” The hand tightens, aching, and when no pulse of arousal surges up to meet the pain Harry realises the Inversion Spell must have been stripped. “In the future, you will tell me anything that is important or that involves me or that you think I might wish to know.” A little release, a little gasp of air, and the hand tightens again, Marvolo’s dark green eyes nearly burning red now. “The fact that your Hermione is aware I have horcruxes and that you’re one of them is, in fact, all three of these things.” 

Harry tries to gasp, to gain the slightest bit of air, and struggles when he can’t. He’s not nearly as afraid as he was the first night. As he probably should be now. The friction of his husband’s body pressing against his spell-bound cock brings a flush to his cheeks. 

He makes himself go lax, sliding his hand under his body, and try, if only ever so carefully, to nod. The vice grip lets go a few precious centimeters and he can breathe shallowly again. 

If he expects a release he doesn’t get it. Marvolo’s eyes slowly bleed out of the red, returning to his natural green, but his large hand remains around Harry’s unresisting throat, tightened all but the last tiny bit until it’s there again. Minutes of laborious tiny breaths pass, as he struggles towards breathing and then the state of breathlessness, as he registers he’s safe. Which is funny -- everything’s a little funny and he’s so dizzy and, god, the ache’s good even without the Inversion Spell -- because this doesn’t seem safe. 

Finally, he’s released, sagging back into the mattress to fight the wave of dizzy relief and touch his achy throat. 

“... are you aroused?” 

“No,” the lie trips off his lips before he winces at the rough pain and palms his wand, willing his silent casting to work on numbing. He doesn’t dare heal it and risk getting rid of the bruises. Relief thankfully comes but Marvolo’s anger bubbles after a spell spits off his wand and hits Harry. “What was that?”

“A spell to mimic your physical state, Harry, including your arousal. You lied to me.” 

He flushes, ducking his head as best he can as he pushes himself up to standing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I lied.” 

“You realise I won’t leave it at that. You will be punished.” 

He’d done so well today, too, and Marvolo’s still blisteringly angry. So instead of asking to use one of his ‘chits against punishment’, as his husband calls them, Harry lowers himself to his knees and rubs a cheek against the man’s lightly haired thigh. “Yes, husband.” 

The slow sigh of disappointment makes the gentle caress of a hand through his long hair less comforting than he would like. Marvolo loves to pet him like this, sometimes spending long minutes doing nothing but when they’re naked together in the bed. Harry’s even woken up to the soft touch before, the clearest sign that it’s no manipulation or attempt to disarm his suspicions about Marvolo’s motivations. 

“Very well. I’m going to do a spell that will make it impossible for you to hide your arousal for, say, three days. The spell should fade naturally then.” 

The mimicry spell should do that but it wouldn’t be much of a punishment for him. He nods obediently, regardless, and doesn’t argue with his punishment. Marvolo’s calming down and that’s what he really needs. “Is there anything you need me to do?” 

There are books Harry’s been reading that he’s had Lissy charm to look like a Rune book far too simplistic for Hermione’s post-OWLs level, each of them dealing with the nature of a dominant-submissive relationship. It’s not uncommon in the magical world for one reason or another, including political marriages like his own, and while he doesn’t mind misbehaving for a good cause or when it’s over an important thing he has been trying to be good. 

One of the biggest things he’s picked up from the books is that when done right punishment is meant to _teach_. Marvolo seems to be taking this method. The punishment usually fits the crime. 

“No. Here.” Two lights snap out, one after another, and Harry only recognises the first. A warmth brushes over his lower half, like submersion in a hot pool, and his skin almost itches for a moment around his hole before fading. The first spell, the Inversion Spell, proves effective when a harsh tug on his hair drives a renewed sense of need through him. 

“Mmm. The Inversion Spell really was a great idea,” he says, pressing up into the hand in his hair. “Were you waiting just to scold me for not telling you that Hermione knew about my scar or did you really want to bed me again too?” 

Marvolo snorts. “I thought you were still sore from earlier.” 

“That wasn’t a complaint,” Harry admits, turning to smile up at his husband. “How does this new spell work, anyway?” 

“I’ll show you after you get me hard.” The pants come off, pooling around his ankles, and Harry opens his mouth to take the cock in front of him in. 

Two weeks isn’t a long time but he’s already much more comfortable with sex and taking the initiative than he started. Two weeks of giving blowjobs helped as Marvolo prefers to start the day getting sucked off, whether or not he lets Harry come. Now he puts his learned skill to good use, humming gently as he sucks down the mostly soft shaft and pulls off again. 

It’s easy and straightforward, the give-take rhythm of sucking a cock to hardness, and the thought about where it’s going to go when it’s hard makes Harry ache a little between his legs, a throbbing pulse in his spell-bound shaft and a needy clench of his hole. The slow realisation that something feels off makes him hesitate and he slowly licks around the foreskin pulled back by his hand while reaching with his other hand to touch the end of the plug inside of him. The dampness on his fingers confuses him. 

“Go ahead, darling. Take out the plug. Work it out of your tight hole.” 

He clenches down, groaning, but obeys the order. The plug comes out and he sets it on the conjured cloth his husband provides for it before going back to touch himself. The area _is_ damp. “Did you reapply lube with a spell?” 

“Oh, no, lovely. _You_ are providing that slick.” 

His brow furrows and he touches again, biting back a whine at how sensitive he is. It’s even more than normal and he follows a quick order to press two fingers past the sore rim. He pumps his fingers, curious about the new sensation, and frowns at the sudden added slick. “What do you mean I’m providing this slick, Mars?”

His husband chuckles. “I did say you’d be unable to hide your arousal.” 

_I’m getting wet. Like a girl. Oh god._

His shoulders lock up in a shock of embarrassment so vivid he all but yanks his fingers out of himself (which only makes him moan, fuck) and feels the fluttery clenching that follows, then the dampness on his rim like slick or come dribbling out of his hole. _I’m not a bloody girl._ The words hover on the tip of his tongue but he swallows them down, swallows down the moan that follows a corrective yank on his hair and a scolding to mind his task, swallows down the desire to beg to have it removed. 

_Bugger. The punishment fits the crime._

He gives a few kitten licks to Marvolo’s slit, flicking off the precum there, and decides that he’s not going to shrink away from his punishment even if it is embarrassing. So he murmurs, “I’m going to touch myself again.” 

Mars groans, which isn’t a no, and Harry reaches back, spreading his legs a little wider, lowering enough to get a better angle for his hand and suck on the underside vein in front of him. It’s not as if he’s never fingered himself. A few days ago he fingered himself for the better part of two hours, kneeling on a cushion in the corner of Marvolo’s office for a long lunch that involved a lot of fingering and some truly spectacular rimming. (Merlin, what that man could do with his tongue makes Harry weak in the knees thinking about it -- and, fuck, fuck, that’s a gush of liquid, fuck, he’s _dripping_ ). 

Harry whines at the thought, his fingers slippery and sliding inside of him, a third finger easily added to the rest. He’s fingered himself. But he’s never been wet like this. Never felt himself grow wetter, messier, with every whimpery pulse of arousal, with every thought and touch. “I’m making a mess,” he whispers, then clears his throat because he’s not a -- It’s a punishment. He’ll handle it with grace, damnit. “Please bed me.”

He’s getting ever so good at not being crude out loud. Marvolo bends down and kisses him gently, tugs him up and pushes him back on the bed, puts hands on his thighs and spreads his legs. And Harry can _feel_ the dampness between his legs in a way that even a copious amount of lube can’t replicate. When Marvolo reaches up and pinches Harry’s nipple the slick dribbles out of his hole, trickling down his crack, and he shivers at the mental image of it. 

Fingers wipe the mess up and press it back into him. “I think I’ll have you watch a Pensieve memory of this, to make certain it sinks in. You, legs up on the bed, positively dripping in your need to have your pretty hole stuffed full of cock. Is that what my pet needs? A nice hard fucking?” 

Harry’s face must be burning but he makes himself spread his legs wider, pretend he’s not embarrassed and heated and so ready to be fucked he could scream. “If that’s what my husband wants.” 

And there it is. Marvolo gives a deep throated groan, his half-lidded eyes focused on Harry’s throbbing hole and his face in equal measure. Fingers pressing deep inside him, sharp dark eyes careful to watch Harry tremble against his own arousal. After another few seconds of playful teasing, Mars strokes his cock to full hardness and climbs onto the bed, kneeling between the legs that open for him and lifting those up even higher, more exposed, from under the knees. 

The shift of position makes Harry shiver at the vulnerability before weight and heat comes down on him and Mars pushes in. 

“Oh, oh.” _Fuck. God._ “Whatsit?” The press overwhelms him, present and overstimulating in a way it’s never been before. When he can keep from demanding, he asks, “What exactly does this spell do?” 

Marvolo chuckles. “It overlays the sensations and responses you’d have with a cunt over your actual anatomy. That causes the wetness and the difference in nerve endings, but you still have a prostate. Helpful, that.” To prove it he slides all the way in, rolling his hips in a way that never fails to manipulate Harry like a ragdoll. 

Harry goes limp, unsure he’d be able to move unless his life depended on it, riding out the wave of sensation as he clenches tight around the cock inside of him. Mars hisses, kissing his forehead before moving down to suck more bruises on his neck. 

“I’m going to, uh, have a, ohh, collar of bruises if -- if you keep up.” 

“Good.”

He’s already getting worried looks from Hermione over the bruises and he considers saying that. It won’t help. “Are you --” Another slide in and he rolls his hips to move with it, shaking with pleasure, words harder to reach than ever. “Are you --” Fuck. “Will you collar me?” It was in the books. A slight shift sets his body off again and he gasps, forcing himself to focus. He’s going to come without permission if he can’t get some distance from the pleasure. 

“Would you like one?” 

Harry pants slightly, squirming as they both adjust position, and lets his legs rest on his husband’s shoulders before cautiously running a hand through the dark hair rubbing against his cheeks as the hickey collar grows bigger. He tilts his chin up, giving more access, and he’s sure he’s going to have a ring of black-and-blue now. “I --” He swallows and gasps at the sudden pain, as his wordless Numbing Charm crashes away in a moment. “ _§’Please.’§_ Even the Parseltongue sounds pained.

“Of course, darling.” A quick healing leeches the pain away and Harry smiles softly when he feels Marvolo checking for any sensitivity. 

“It feels much better. Thanks.” And Harry tugs on the other man’s hair for once, pulling up to bring their mouths together for a heated kiss. 

They kiss -- a twist of tongues, a tug on his lower lip from gentle teeth, lips pressing against his mouth softly, almost chastely, when he’s left panting and needs air -- and then Marvolo holds himself up over Harry, rolling his hips forward to keep them joined. A hand brushes over Harry’s jaw. 

“You’re being so good for me, darling. I have another spell I’m going to do. Not a punishment. Nothing you need to fight or focus on. I only wanted to warn you that I’ll be casting.” 

He buries his head into the firm chest above him, nuzzling along one side in a nod. The spell tingles up along his spine a moment later, fizzling out at his tailbone. “I wanna come,” he says hopefully. Mars doesn’t always produce ‘lessons’ about patience or obedience when Harry comes without permission but it’s often enough that he always tries to speak up. 

That yew wand taps down on the night table, the spell set, and a hand traces his jaw again -- this time to press his chin up, to help meet their eyes. The eyes above him are dark green and lively and affectionate, or something like, as Marvolo replies, “Let me help with that. Harry?” 

“Mmm?” 

“I have noticed your studiousness. That was the right choice.” 

He smiles back, a warmth coursing through him that is only somewhat explained by the man stretched out over him. “Oh. Good.” 

Then his husband moves and Harry breathes out, thoughts sputtering out around the pleasure. He tries to be good during sex, to not be selfish and act back, but it’s so hard when Marvolo only needs to pump his hips the right way to breakthrough Harry’s new sense of sexual control. Anything new or too-many-things-at-once blows through his ability to focus. And the other man seems to delight in overwhelming him. 

So now he tries to roll his hips back and cries out with the slightest motion, whimpering and digging his nails into Marvolo’s back as he pulls him down, closer, at a better angle, more, oh, fuck. “Too much,” he whimpers and Marvolo only rolls his hips harder, faster, smirking down and then leaning, making more and more bruises around Harry’s neck. 

He doesn’t last. He comes quickly, at the laughing spill of permission off his husband’s lips, and then instead of satisfaction followed by a sedate sort of focus, the feeling begins to build _again_. 

Mars pauses in sucking a bruise over Harry’s pulse point when he feels the full-body whine his consort gives and smiles down at him. “The last spell is a reward for good behaviour. Enjoy yourself, little one.” 

After Harry’s third orgasm, this one a stuttering moan of a thing -- _Ohhh-oh-oh-oh-OH!_ \-- Marvolo considers letting himself come. He’s been on edge for minutes now, a spell lashing his arousal in tight in order to maintain his erection and the sweet torture he’s releasing on his consort. Once he comes that will hardly be the last of it, if he so wishes. 

Harry throws his head back, gasping and rocking with desperate, unconscious abandon, riding through the orgasm to begin building up again. His throat stretches out, pale underneath the bright red and darkening purple of his new marks. 

Marvolo strokes the skin, admiring his handiwork, and experimentally tightens his fingers slightly below the skull. A gasp cuts off as he presses hard on the giving flesh and feels the constriction of the trachea. His fingertips press against the pulse point, his thumb against the other, constricting the artery flow as well.

And his young consort’s eyes flutter as he begins to float. 

The body underneath Marvolo thrashes in the throes of breathlessness and euphoria of strangulation as two instincts fight within him. But then Harry offers a strangled whimper, his hole tightening so pleasantly, and drags Marvolo under the tide of orgasmic bliss. As he comes, spilling himself inside the petite body, he lets go. 

The boy gasps, heaving breathless moments that stretch out between them. His life is as transient as he is and so easily snuffed out if Marvolo willed it so. A life entirely within his hands to do with as he pleases, even end it.

If he willed it. 

Instead he will _will_ this child bride to live and live well. “Good. Breathe. Mm. Your throat looks… appetizing.” His spent cock twitches at the sight of bruise blushed skin. “Good, Harry. You did well.” 

Harry slowly gets his breathing under control and smiles lazily up at his master, bubbling with pleasure and half-lidded by it. “How bad does my throat look?” 

“You may wear a collar if you think your witchling will find that less distressing than the bruises.” 

His fingers reach up to touch the bruises he can’t yet feel. Marvolo summons a plug large enough to be troublesome over a long period of time and pulls out, filling Harry’s hole in the next heartbeat. The boy groans and flushes, looking up through his lashes shyly. “Do you, um, want me to wear a collar?” he asks quietly. 

“No, darling. I’d like to see these pretty bruises of yours.”

“Oh.” He squirms again, lowering his legs finally. Marvolo pushes them back up. “W-what?” 

“Oh, are you done then? I _thought_ you were in the midst of arousal rising again as I peaked.” 

With a pretty blush, Harry looks between his legs, flexing the toes of his twitching feet. He wants to put his legs down, that much is clear, but he follows Marvolo’s unspoken order as usual. Teaching him submission -- and that submission is safe -- is coming along nicely, really. “You came and, erm, did what you usually do --” 

“What I usually do?” 

A brief, furtive glare crosses Harry’s expression before he controls it. “You plugged me. As you usually do when we’re done.” 

“You were very good.” Marvolo reaches over him and presses his fingers down on the will-be bruises. “And as I’ve told you: good boys get rewards.” The rest unfolds simply, transfiguring the large plug to have a manipulatable hold, and then -- slowly at first before building -- fucking him with it. “Take hold of your ankles and pull them further up.” Harry is nearly folded in half now, bare and twitching from his toes to his cock.

Marvolo smiles, rubbing at the spell-bound flesh, thinking of how Harry’s going to flush as red as can be when he sees this fucking of him: a large cock in his dripping hole, a hand rubbing at his cock as if it’s a clit instead. Feminising him appeals -- if only for the control he would exert in doing so -- and Marvolo vows to think upon it more, later. For now he works his little consort up, towards the edge, and then stops. 

Harry cries out in anguish at his orgasm denied, gasping up at the ceiling for a long moment before he looks up in question instead. The look asks ‘What did I do’ better than words could and Marvolo flicks a spell to keep the fake cock moving, grinding his palm down against the soft cock of his consort. 

“Good, little one.” He strokes at the soft, bruised skin and holds his hand there, tightened without strangulation, more creating the impression of bruising than causing it. Still, he’ll ensure that the impromptu collar remains with this. 

“Mars. Mars.” He works Harry up again, bringing those bright eyes to the edge of ecstasy and desperation. Then he lets go. “Please!” 

“Stay still. Do not rock into this toy. Keep your ankles up. You may moan.” 

It takes three more tries before Harry manages it, shaky and near crying. When he comes he teeters on the edge of conscious unawareness, that place he describes only as floating, and Marvolo eases him down only slowly. A gentle cleaning spell, re-adjusting the plug back down to a more manageable shape and size, and it’s time to be tucked in for the night.

“That was good,” he says quietly, tugging Marvolo down to lie beside him. A moment later he cuddles in, as if he’s not in bed with the _Dark Lord_. As much as Marvolo knows he should provide more space without sex tripping up their expectations of each other, that it would be healthier, he won’t deny himself the pleasure. He’s never made it a habit to forgo pleasurable things and Harry is one of them, regardless of the complications it brings. Those he can deal with. A soft kiss to the forehead gets a sigh and a moment of entanglement, the warm body slotting up against Marvolo’s side and settling when arms tighten around him. “Why do you do this?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I know you don’t get anything out of it. There’s even better things you could be doing with your time -- you usually go back to your office after I fall asleep, Lissy says so. So why do you do this?” An ear presses against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. 

“If I’m going to overwhelm you -- or make you ‘float’, as you call it -- then it’s my responsibility to see you through that. This helps you. The more intense we’ve been the more clingy you are. I understand it’s a physiological need and I promised to see to those, didn’t I?” 

Harry turns up his face, ear still half-pressed to Marvolo’s chest, and wide green eyes stare up at him. “Y-you did. I… “ A choked laugh, halfway to upset despite the tiredness in the sound, comes out and he looks away again. “This is the first time -- This is so fucked up.” Marvolo decides to let the language go this once. “Thanks. Don’t pretend it’s all the contract. The _contract_ doesn’t make you pay such attention to -- to detail, maybe.” 

After that all’s silent for a few long minutes, long enough he thinks that maybe Harry’s gone to sleep.

But, then: “I don’t know that you had to do this this way, to get what you want. Adoption was an option; don’t pretend that it wasn’t. But… I don’t care. You get what you get out of this. Fucking me. Me cooperating with you fucking me. I get -- I get someone who cares about whether or not I ate dinner and what books I’m reading and about what I need. And I get my friends safe from you and, because I’d never forgive if you didn’t protect them, from everyone else too…” He presses his face against Marvolo’s neck and murmurs, “I got the better deal.” 

Then he is asleep, his breath evening off before Marvolo’s mustered a response. He waits a long few minutes to make certain Harry won’t wake up and then extricates himself. 

He doesn’t have any work left for the day, not in terms of his reworking of the governmental structures in magical Britain at least, but there is still work for him to do of a more personal nature. He’ll put an hour in and then rejoin Harry in bed to sleep. Ever since the marriage Marvolo has been sleeping better and he doesn’t believe it’s only the regular sex that’s the cause. 

Still, that doesn’t hurt.


End file.
